


Crochet Angel

by Tenoko1



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Rowena MacLeod, Cursed Castiel, Cursed doll, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Sharing a Bed, This is not the crack piece or fluff you would expect, just trust me, not crack, post s13, unlikely friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 00:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: In his defense, the Men of Letters archive seemed not only a collection of artifacts and files, but a general storage room with boxes of perfectly normal, though excess, items from someone else’s basement.Clearly, in hindsight, the doll was not someone’s junk.“How do you feel?” Sam had worried, face huge from his perspective.He was just under a foot tall and made of yarn and cotton, how did theythinkhe felt?





	Crochet Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePlaidFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlaidFox/gifts).



> Thank you to Diminuel who surprised me by remaking my Post-It note doodle because I didn't have Wacom or SAI. I _really_ appreciate it.
> 
> ThePlaidFox... I hope you like it.

In his defense, the Men of Letters archive seemed not only a collection of artifacts and files but a general storage room with boxes of perfectly normal, though excess, items from someone else’s basement.

Boxes and paperwork cataloging items were separated, boxes on the floor and files in a cabinet, so unless you had the paperwork beforehand, there was little way of knowing which you were getting: the occult or someone’s junk.

Clearly, in hindsight, it was not someone’s junk. Men of Letters just didn’t know how or didn’t bother to organize.

“How do you feel?” Sam had worried, face huge from his perspective.

It had been a stupid, logical question to ask, with a long and complicated answer.

Sighing, Cas slumped, reaching out with both hands to turn the page of the grimoire. Fingers would have been convenient, but instead, his crocheted arms worked more like paws with only a thumb on each. He had to grip the yellowed page between them in order to turn it.

_How do you feel?_

He was just under a foot tall and made of yarn and cotton, how did they think he felt?

Cas didn’t remember the transformation, just partially coming to as someone called his name, their voice far away, muffled like he were underwater.

He remembered Dean looking monstrously large and looming over him, face carved into confusion. He remembered the nauseating feel as fingers slid under him, limbs limp and head lolling as he was lifted, the world moving at a dizzying pace when hundreds of feet passed in only a moment.

He’d blacked out after that.

Cas turned another page, feeling the material that formed his face pull in order to reflect an expression, brows drawing closer together.

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure how the magic worked. It was beyond anything he’d encountered before. Animated objects? Sure. Brooms that swept rooms. Vines and greenery that came to life as a defense and trap. Statues that acted as sentries. Enchanted pens that recorded the events of a person’s life.

But never anything alive. Sentient.

Cas looked at the peach-colored material of his hands, the sleeves of a coat now fit for a doll rather than a person. What was he able to hear with? How were his black bead eyes able to see? How could he talk with no mouth? How could he breathe? Sigh?

He’d woken up on Dean’s bed, propped against the pillow.

The fear on Dean’s features had quickly smoothed away, the hunter shifting to the professional tone he used when dealing with civilians, as though if _he_ stayed calm it would keep Castiel calm when he held him in front of a mirror so he could see what the curse had done.

Dean had cradled him in the palms of his hands, Cas leaning forward to touch his reflection with a detached disbelief.

Shaking his head, Cas pushed himself away from the book and to his feet. Sam’s head swung in his direction at the movement, worried hazel eyes and puppy-ish expression as Cas lowered himself to the edge of the table, dropping to the chair and then the floor, to walk out of the library.

“Cas?” he called.

Castiel lacked the energy to respond. He wished for his wings. Wished for hands he could curl into fists.

He was a _child’s toy_. His form now more foreign and limited that even his human body was.

He had been a warrior. He’d led armies and fought on the front lines of demonic wars, he’d laid siege to Hell and won. His true visage was terrifying and beautiful, too much for the human eyes to bear, his voice beyond what they could comprehend. He’d sung with the choirs and watched civilizations rise and fall.

Now he stood in an empty corridor looking at the door to his room with no way in because it was closed.

It was a level of cruelty worthy of Hell.

Head bowed, he made his way to the room next to his, past Dean’s boots at the footboard to grab the bottom of his blanket and climb hand-over-hand up and onto the bed.

Castiel sat looking around. He was so  _small_. Everything towered huge and immovable around him.

He looked at his hands, choked with a crushing grief and despondency.

How did he _feel_?

He felt like someone’s _plaything_.

Crawling toward the pillow, Cas curled up on his side, drawing his knees to his chest and tried to sleep.

* * *

 

He roused from fitful dreams hours later when a door shut. He pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, faltering when he saw his hands, his body, and remembered.

Dean stood leaning against the door, eyes shuttered as he watched Cas on the bed.

“My door is closed,” Cas explained rather than force Dean to ask the obvious. The hunter’s eyes flicked to their shared wall and then fell. It was then that Cas noted the damp hair fresh from the shower, the sweatpants and t-shirt-- clearly dressed for the night. He moved to the edge of the bed. “I can leave.”

“Cas, no,” Dean said, cutting him off with an aborted step. Cas froze and Dean looked anywhere but at him. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Bed’s obviously big enough for the both of us-- if you don’t mind bunking with me.”

Lowering his head, Cas nodded, crawling closer to the pillow and wishing he wasn’t so desperate to not feel alone. Wishing he didn’t want to cry from the sheer frustration, the shame and humiliation. Everything about it made him angry. Devastated him. Torn in two completely different directions and aching for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Dean moved cautiously through the space as though he were the intruder, pausing in pulling back the covers to regard where Cas had curled on his side.

“...do you want to take off your coat? Be more comfortable?”

He shook his head, hugging the material tighter around him, wishing it made him feel _more_ than he currently was.

Accepting that, Dean gave a single nod and turned off the lamp as he slid into bed, facing Castiel.

With the loss of light and inability to see, Cas felt crushed, unable to breathe. He may have made a sound, no longer caring as he blindly closed the space between them to clutch at the front of Dean’s shirt. He pressed his face to the material, grateful that his beaded eyes didn’t have tear ducts to cry with, praying Dean would allow him this. Not push him away. Not let him drown and suffocate and break.

He choked back a sound.

Dean settled a warm hand against Castiel’s back, thumb moving gently back and forth. “You’re gonna be okay,” he promised in a whisper, his warmth and presence like a shield wrapping around him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Not sure he believed it, Cas nodded and concentrated on the steady beat of Dean’s heart until it lulled him to sleep.

* * *

 

 “Cas,” Dean whispered, shaking him with a gentle hand. “Morning, Sunshine. Time to wake up.”

    Relaxed and warm, Cas drifted to wakefulness, eyes opening to a world of solid grey, material clutched in paw-like hands. He jerked, snatching his hands away and trying to scramble back, head jerking around and then up, Dean looming large above him, head angled to the side.

    “Easy, tiger, it’s just me.” He smirked, one brow swept high. “Forget where you were for a second?”

    Forgot where he was. Forgot _what_ he was. A disorienting nightmare that settled into reality.

    He sat back, legs splayed in front of him. Dean stretched, back popping as he groaned and sighed in relief. Green eyes landed on Castiel, smile easy as he waggled his eyebrows.

    “Wanna keep me company while I make breakfast?”

    Wishing he had a proper mouth to smile with, he jerked his head in a single nod. “Yes.”

    “Awesome!” He popped his neck and looked around. “Would probably be a lot faster if I just took you with me in there,” his eyes met Cas’, “that cool with you?”

    The need to be carried room-to-room like a child’s toy? No. It was far from okay, but it was logical.

    He lowered his eyes with a sigh. “Yes.”

    “‘Kay.” Dean stood. “Imma run to the bathroom, then come back and get you, okay?”

    Cas waited for approximately five full seconds after Dean left the room before the need to move, to do, to prove himself-- what did it mean when an angel was insecure and desperate for validation or was that part of their basic nature?-- had him up, hands reaching for the sheet.

He tugged the sheet up and straightened it, then the blanket, before placing Dean’s pillow center and fluffing it, pulling on the pillowcase to smooth out the wrinkles. Finished with nothing else he could do, Cas sat the edge of the bed looking down at the floor.

    Dean swung into the room a moment later, pulling up short just as Cas looked up. He took in the bed then flashed him a grin.

    “Ready for breakfast?”

    “Not that I’ll be partaking, but the company is nice enough.” Dean hesitated in front of him; Castiel had to tilt his head all the way back to see his face.”The distance is significantly greater for me, so please move a bit slower. It’s… dizzying.”

    Dean flinched and nodded, clearly biting back an apology as he reached out and lifted Cas.

    Rather than carrying him like Cas expected, Dean placed him on his shoulder.

    “Can you hang on up there?”

    Placing a hand on his shoulder and one on the back of his neck, Cas nodded, thankful for the less humiliating form of transport. “Yes.”

    They were silent as they left the room, Dean pausing to glance down the hall to Sam’s room. The door was shut. He nodded, expression pensive, and Cas wondered at that.

    “Is something wrong?” he asked when the lines of Dean’s features didn’t smooth.

    “Nah. Everything’s fine.”

    The yarn where his mouth would be pulled into a sardonic smile at the absurdity of the sentence.

    Lucifer and Michael were dead, sure. Mary was off hunting. Charlie was on a road trip discovering the universe and following the threads of her other self. Jack was staying with Jody and the girls, wanting to meet them-- specifically Claire due to a sort of pseudo-sibling relationship-- as well as to build friendships with people closer to his age.

    All of those things were positive on the surface, but Jack was still affected by what had happened, still struggled with who he wanted to be versus what his bloodline threatened to turn him in to.

    Sam… was taking it all fairly hard. Old wounds reopened with Lucifer being free and their enemy for so long again, memories of the apocalypse and Hell and the Cage yanked to the forefront of his mind. He’d adopted sleeping habits worse than Dean’s, staying up all hours of the night busying himself with books or working out in the gym. If he could busy himself enough, exhaust himself, it might make things better, tuck the traumas back in their box where the Winchesters seemed to shove everything. As though if he pushed himself to the brink, he might fall into a dreamless sleep instead of waking up screaming or struggling to breathe.

    Then there was Dean, with enough trauma on his own plate to deal with, piled on further with worry for his brother and his ineffectual attempts to erase the shadows and lines from his sibling’s features. The impotent urge to fix everything, to accept there were things beyond his control that he couldn’t protect his baby brother from. Added to that, the loss of their mother, whose estrangement from them had left scars and destroyed comforting memories.

    Now, pile on Cas’ predicament, not only unable to help either of them but pulling at their already drained emotional and mental resources. He was making things worse when all he ever wanted was to help, to make things better, to not add to their worries.

    He said nothing, gaze lowered as he gripped Dean’ shirt tighter.

    In the kitchen, Dean swiftly lifted Cas from his shoulder and set him on the counter in the corner.

    “Hang tight while I get breakfast started.”

    Cas pushed to his feet. “What can I do to help?”

    The hunter faltered, green eyes flicking over Cas’ form and size, then sweeping around the kitchen, stopping at the coffee pot.

    “Do you know how to make coffee?”

    Cas gave a sharp nod. “I can do that.”

    And he could and would. Even though he was the same height as the machine, he could do this small thing, help in this necessary morning ritual. He could be useful, grant a small measure of relief when Dean sighed happily into his first cup.

    “Sam can’t cook,” Dean said, pulling the egg carton from the fridge. Cas watched as he retrieved a variety of other things, setting them in a neat order on the counter. “And I’m not just janking on Sam saying that,” he insisted as he grabbed a frying pan off the hook. “He cannot cook. You try to get Sam to scramble some eggs and you’re gonna eat overcooked, rubbery eggs with pieces of shell in them. He tries, I’ll give him that.” He opened a container of leftover rice and poured it into the pan with a bowl of mixed vegetables. “I was laid up with a broken leg back… well, it was after you died. The first time. Er, the second, I guess? When we were fighting the leviathan. Running from them more like; had to go to ground-- in part because I broke my frikkin leg and had a cast up to my thigh. Showers were fun, lemme tell you.”

    He waved wildly with the spatula and threw Cas a wink. “So Sam-- bless him-- despite his own damage and putting up with hallucinating Lucifer like a ridiculous sitcom laugh track of bad puns and sarcasm, has to take up most of the cooking because hey! Cast. Up to my thigh. Part of it was wanting to help me, though he’s never been good at the caregiving bit, and part, I know, was him just trying to keep himself busy so as to not focus on his own things, which hey, can’t blame him for that.”

    Cas found himself smiling, or what would pass for a smile if he’d had a mouth. “I take it his attempts didn’t go well?”

    Pouring a dark sauce into the rice and vegetable mix with a flourish, Dean slid him a look. “Did I mention Sam can’t cook?” He stirred it until the rice was all a warm brown and sizzling. “Rubbery eggs. Burnt grilled cheese. Even if he’s just heating up soup it explodes everywhere. The one thing he is mildly confident in his ability to cook is chili-- which again is not great, but it is edible.” He shrugged as he poured the mixture into a bowl, rinsed and wiped out the pan before he started cracking eggs in another bowl. “Cas. Chili. Every day. _For weeks_. I ended up losing weight because I just couldn’t bear to look at another bowl of it. How the kid ever managed without me, I don’t know. Probably ate in the college cafeteria until he and Jess started living together and she saved him from himself. Probably saved her, too.”

    When the flat circle of eggs began the solidify, Dean scooped some of his earlier mixture into it, folding the edge over into an omelet, before transferring it to a plate.

    “I say all of that to make sure that if you ever break your leg and are laid up in bed?” He drizzled a squiggle of ketchup in a loose zigzag across the top of the omelet, before presenting the finished product with a flourish. “Don’t let Sam try to feed you.”

    Wishing he could properly smile, Cas soundlessly clapped his plush hands together. Dean inclined his head in a mock bow before scooping Cas up and redepositing him on the table as Dean took a seat, fork and black coffee in hand.

    Castiel eyed his food in curiosity, looking back over to the stove and countertops. “Where did you learn that?”

    “To cook? Necessity, dude. Boredom from being stuck in motels and the desperate need for variety on a limited budget. I can only eat microwave mac and cheese so much and fresh groceries made funds last longer.”

    Shaking his head, Cas pointed to the unusual omelet. “No, where did you learn to cook that.”

    “Ah.” He cut off a bite, shrugging. “Got the idea from watching anime.” Cas watched him and Dean stared back, lips pursed and eyes squinting. “Yeah, your face isn’t giving me anything to work with expression-wise, so I don’t know where to go from there.”

    Cas dropped his gaze, hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

    “Dude, don’t be sorry.” He waved his fork and continued eating. “I guess I just never realized how much I depend on non-verbal cues for what to say next, like if that was all the answer you were looking for or if you want me to elaborate on the story. Or even if you fell asleep-- though your eyes lose their shininess when you blink or go to sleep, so at least I know _didn’t_ put you to sleep.”

    “I’ll try to communicate better,” Cas promised, nodding vigorously.

    Dean jerked, blinking and mouth pulling down at the corners like he’s said something both unexpected and unreasonable. “Cas, I was just teasing you. You’re fine, dude.”

    “I’m not and I’m sorry.” He looked down at his palms. Was this going to be the story of his life? Failure and disappointment until he ultimately became nothing? “I only wanted to help, but yet again...” He sagged. “I’m sorry.”

    The clock on the wall counted out the seconds of weighted guilt and silence.

    A hand settled heavy, but gently on his head, startling him, and he looked up to see Dean offering a thin smile that didn’t lessen the weariness making him look old beyond his years.

    “Cas, it’s not your fault. It could have been me digging through the box. Or Sam.” His thumb stroked over the yarn that made up Castiel’s hair, the angel aware he was effectively being petted but he appreciated the awkward effort. Perhaps his childish, inhuman appearance made it easier, or maybe it just made the pity that great. “The room was full of stuff that wasn’t organized or on shelves. There’s no way you could have known. We still haven’t been able to find paperwork to go with the box-- if there was any. It could be a freak accident. Cursed heirloom from Grandma’s attic.” He withdrew, shaking his head. “You’re definitely a Winchester if you’re blaming yourself for things you had no control over, as though you expect to be omniscient.”

    He kept his eyes lowered, weary with defeat. “I only want to help.”

    “Cas.” Dean nudged his foot with the tines of his fork until he looked up. “You do help.”

    Doubtful, Cas was still grateful for the words. The twist of guilt that he’d upset the easy atmosphere of before had him blurting out, “You can tell me more.” Dean’s brow furrowed. “About cooking because of anime.”

    Seeming happy with the invitation, Dean launched into an explanation of anime and Japanese culture for food, bentos, and the art that food should not only be delicious, but visually appealing.

    Cas listened intently, nodding in the right places, and even chuckling when Dean told him about a character’s reaction to food that was seemingly so orgasmic it made his clothes explode from his body. He was certain Dean was exaggerating in order to cheer him up. It didn’t work, but Cas could make him believe it had.

    When Dean rose, Castiel pushed to his feet with a wordless, but obvious enough gesture that Dean scooped him up, transplanting him to the counter as Dean washed and put away his plate, then set about getting a second mug from the cabinet and making another omelet.

    Cas carefully spooned cream and sugar into the fresh coffee, the instrument nearly his height and ungainly to maneuver without spilling, but he determinedly managed, gripping the handle with both hands in order to stir the coffee to a lighter shade.

    When the food was finished, Dean held out a hand Cas immediately jumped on, the hunter hoisting him on to his shoulder before grabbing food and coffee and exiting the room.

    It was a juggle of plate, coffee, and balancing Cas in order to knock and open Sam’s bedroom door.

    “Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean crowed, using his elbow to turn on the overhead light.

    Sam was sprawled face-down on his pillow, one hand gesturing and mumbles lost to cotton.

    Brows raised, Cas let his gaze wander the unorganized files and haphazard piles of books and papers on the floor and every surface. It looked like a storage room, but with Sam’s bed in the center. Dean sighed, cheerful mask falling away from a weary expression before leaning toward the chest of drawers.

    “Hop down, will you, Cas?”

    He did and Dean set aside the food and coffee so he could start stacking books and files from the desk and nightstand, sitting them in the hall. The breakfast and coffee went on the revealed desk surface.

    When Dean reached to pull the blanket away, Cas made a hum as if clearing his throat. Green eyes glanced at him over his shoulder, following Cas’ nod to look below the bed. Another heavy sigh as Dean retrieved the empty bottle of Jim Beam and the mostly empty Jack Daniels, putting one in the trash and the other out in the hall.

    “C’mon, Sammy, rise and shine,” Dean said, voice flat and forceful this time. He yanked the covers away, exposing Sam to the cool air. “Brought you breakfast and coffee.” He shook his shoulder when Sam refused to move. “I’ll come back with water and aspirin in a minute. _Get up_.”

    Accepting the grumbling as assent, Dean turned toward the door, meeting Cas’ eye. Cas nodded.

    “One minute,” he promised, ducking out the door.

    He stared after him for a long moment, before turning his attention to where Sam now sat on the edge of the bed cradling his head.

    Even with his angelic powers, Cas could have done little more than cure Sam’s hangover, maybe cause him to have dreamless sleep, but that wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t heal the wounds that carved his face in gaunt lines and left shadows under his eyes.

    When Sam let out a soft, almost imperceptible swear, Cas stiffened. Sam didn’t realize he was there. He felt he was intruding, but seated on the chest of drawers, there was no way for him to escape and allow Sam privacy.

    “I understand talking to someone helps,” he offered, hesitant and unsure how else to make his presence known. Sam’s head jerked up and he flinched, eyes squeezing shut. Cas remembered his one hangover and felt further sympathy, useless though it was. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

    He wasn’t sure if he meant the hangover or the trauma and Sam didn’t seem to know either but he offered a smile that was little more than a stretch of lips not reaching his eyes.

    Dean slid into the room, socked feet skidding over linoleum with ease, pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

    “I am way too good to you, Sammy,” Dean announced, handing them over. “I practically spoil you. Breakfast in bed and everything.”

    Sam’s snort of amusement was half-hearted, but his mouth ticked up at the corner. “Jerk.”

    “Brat. Eat your breakfast. Make your bed. Get a shower. I expect you in the library in an hour.” He turned his head, lifted a brow and then his arm, elbow to the chest of drawers. “Cas?”

    He hopped up, surprised by his urgency (enthusiasm?) to not be left behind, sitting easily on Dean’s shoulder as the hunter turned from the room and headed for the library.

* * *

 

 Sam didn’t show up for more than two hours, but when he did, neither of them commented on it. Dean handed him another glass of water and some more aspirin as he continued talking in low tones with Rowena in the War Room.

    Castiel kept his eyes focused on the grimoire he was searching through, pretending he missed Sam’s worried glance or Rowena’s curious gaze until he heard, “Do you have a lab I can use?” Dean nodded and Rowena smiled brightly. “Then shall we?”

    The hunter looked over and caught his eye, a question in the slight angle of his head. Steeling himself, Cas pushed to his feet and hopped into Dean’s hand when he came over, effortlessly guided to perch on his shoulder.

    Rowena opened her mouth and Dean pointed at her. “Not a word.”

    Her mouth clicked shut, but the corners of her mouth still wobbled on an amused look he didn’t understand.

    The lab was mostly empty save for dusty, outdated equipment. Rowena tapped a lacquered nail to the metal table top as she set down her bag and began rifling through it. Castiel slid down Dean’s arm but didn’t move any further away watching her.

    She tapped again, casting him a glance. “C’mon, poppet. Let’s have a look. Have you still got the doll? I’ll need it. Handle with care when you fetch it, will you?”

    Dean spared only a moment to meet Cas’ eye before he was out the door. Cas turned back and nearly startled backward to suddenly have Rowena’s face so close.

    “Fascinating.” She tilted her head. “Can you see and hear me?” He nodded. “Can you talk?”

    “Yes.”

    “ _Fascinating_.” She poked at his stomach. “That?” He nodded and she straightened, hands clutching her elbows and eyes narrowed with a sharp, calculating look to them. “You just touched the doll, aye? Nothing else? Most unusual.” She turned to her bag. “I can try some basic counter curses and potions, but not sure how to do them when you’re unable to drink aside from dumping them on you.” One brow lifted. “I don’t suppose you fancy getting washed and tossed in the dryer. Would you shrink further, I wonder? Ah! I’d know that glare doll or not. Such a _dirty_ look. It was a _jest_ , angel,” she said, waving a hand as she dug through her bag. “I dare not risk worrying that bonnie hunter of yers further. I’d be creating a hair tonic next.”

    When Dean came back, he held the porcelain doll in a pair of metal tongs out in front of him, sitting it on the table.

    Rowena straightened with a blink. “Not crochet? How odd. Did you touch it again?” Dean and Cas shared a look, then back to her. She raised her hands. “Have you tried turning it off and back on again? Many curses have an overly simple solution so no one would think of it.”

    Dean folded his arms. “And risk making it worse? No.”

    “Alright, well, then we need a test subject. Do y’have a prisoner?” His brows shot up. “We could ask Fergus to donate I’m sure-- all _very bad_ people, of course. Maybe a demon or two. I’m wondering if being an angel had any effect on the curse. Too bad we’vn’t another angel to test. Have you got any? What is the _point_ of having a dungeon if it’s empty? _Honestly_.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Well, I’ll need to test the doll and curse on various subjects before I can even begin to offer answers. Don’t suppose a girl could get a spot of tea?”

    Scowling, Dean opened his mouth, but Cas looked up at him. “Dean.” He didn’t know how much he could express facially given his current body, but apparently, it was enough because the hunter let his arms drop on a sigh and held out a hand.

    “Fine. Pot of tea coming up.” He jabbed a finger at her as Cas settled into the crook of his arm as Dean scooped him up, cradling him but not lifting him to his shoulder. “Not a word of this to Crowley, understood?”

    “Mum’s the word.”

The King of Hell being alive again was probably the most anticlimactic change to have occurred recently.

Of course, after multiple universes, the return of old friends in the form of their doppelgangers, and a second showdown between Michael and Lucifer, Crowley being brought back to life by one of the Princes of Hell because they were all _that dedicated_ to _not_ being in charge? Pretty much didn’t even register on the Weird-o-meter.

Rowena being happy to the point she got choked up-- _that did_ register.

Their lives were surreal.

    Cas waited until they were making their way down the corridor. “Do you think she’ll keep it to herself?”

    “If she doesn’t want to end up the one in the dungeon she will.”

* * *

 

After getting Rowena a kettle and a few tea bags-- with a side look at the man bound and gagged sitting in the corner-- Dean headed back to the library.

    “Sammy, you good?”

    Sam raised his head, skin pallor improved, but the lines and shadows were still too prominent for Cas to really feel any better.

    “Yeah, why?”

    He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Rowena’s in the R&D room and my eyes need a break. Me and Cas are gonna be in the Cave if you wanna walk by and check on her occasionally.” He hesitated. “...if you hear screaming, Crowley’s offered her test subjects to find a cure with.”

    Sam’s back stiffened. “And we’re okay with that?”

    “I figure it’s kinder than whatever Hell’s got planned.”

    As they turned back down the hallway, Dean looked down to give Cas a crooked smile, a bare hint of teeth flashing. “ _I_ am gonna introduce you to some _anime_.”

* * *

 

“What does cooking have to do with being attacked by monstrous octopi? Or ‘demonic talons of aroma magic’? There’s no such thing. Why do they keep ending up naked?”

    “It’s a use of hyperbole humor to the point of ridiculousness that makes it funny. It's _supposed_ to be ridiculous!” He settled his hand on Cas’ head where he sat in Dean’s lap. Cas looked up to find him grinning at him. “Just _watch_.”

    Frowning dubiously, Castiel turned back to the tv and laid his head against Dean’s sternum wondering if humans would ever make sense. He was comfortable, though, which counted for something, and the sound of Dean’s heart so close to his ear was a sound he enjoyed.

 

* * *

 

Lucifer’s face loomed large and gleeful over him, mouth split wide on a grin that showed all of his teeth as Castiel scrambled on the slick wood surface of the library table, trying to get his feet under him to run.

    “Ah, ah…” Lucifer cooed, fingers nimbly plucking the back of Cas coat and dragging him back. Castiel tore free of the garment, wrenching his arms loose as he threw his weight forward. His brother laughed and grabbed him by his suit jacket. “Did you think you could get away, Castiel?”

Fighting, he twisted and pulled, struggling out of that jacket as well, stumbling to his hands and knees as he came free.

Lucifer gasped, eyes lighting as he reached forward, a weight snagging Cas foot, making him twist to look back, breath coming too short and fast.

Black yarn was pinched between Lucifer’s fingers and he gave a throaty chuckle. “Looks like you have a _snag_ , brother.”

He gave it a tug, dragging Cas closer but also pulling more of the thread free. Cas stared, cold terror and panic filling him as cotton burst from the tear. He turned and tried again to desperately scramble away, hands and knees getting no traction as the strange tugging sensation on his leg continued.

Lucifer laughed a low, pleased hum, making Castiel throw him another desperate look to be shocked with the sight of one leg unraveled to the knee and cotton spilling across the wood, the thread coming apart easily as Lucifer’s large hands pulled the thread with meticulous glee.

“You’re just falling to pieces, Castiel.” He reached forward, plucking at a loose thread on Cas arm, pulling it the same as the other, cotton erupting from the split. “I get to tear you apart after all.”

“No!” Castiel shouted, the sound one of horror and desperation.

It wasn’t defiance but unbridled fear and terror. He was going to die, even as he fought it just made him unravel faster, made Lucifer’ grin wider, his laugh louder--

“ _No!_ ” he screamed, fighting against the hand restraining him, blind in the sudden pitch-black, getting tangled and tripping over himself.

“Cas, whoa, stop, Cas!” a voice barked, but Cas fought wildly, no coordination as he was somehow caught and stumbled.

The light flared on, near blinding as Cas freed himself from the sheet, spinning in a desperate circle, trying to see every thread.

“Am I unraveling?”

“What?”

“ _Am I unraveling?_ ” he demanded in a ragged voice, feeling himself shaking from head to toe and a painful buildup in his chest, rising to his throat and eyes.

Green eyes took him in head-to-toe, shaking his head. Eyes landed back on Castiel’s face. “It was just a nightmare. You’re fine.”

Feeling suffocated, a wet huff escaped him as he shook his head, features crumbling. “I’m not,” he choked out bringing his hands up to cover his face as a full-body sob escaped.

Everything was a mess. All he wanted, even the simplest things, he couldn’t do. He couldn’t help Sam- not with his grace, not as a friend. He couldn’t help Dean shoulder his burdens so he didn’t have to do it alone. He wasn’t able to help Jack, to save Kelly. He hadn’t stopped Lucifer and now they all had more scars to bear because of it. All he wanted to do was help and protect. Now he was so weak and useless he couldn’t even open a door, could be unmade by the pulling of a _thread_.

He kept his face covered as another tearless sob escaped, shame and self-loathing and hopelessness like talons ripping through him.

The mattress shifted, dipped, as Dean moved closer, curling his body around Cas with one hand pressed to his back, hugging him to his chest. Like the night before, Cas gripped the front of Dean’s shirt, pressing his face into the material as he fell apart.

His thumb stroked carefully. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

Dean faltered entering the kitchen, Cas having to brace himself on his shoulder at the sudden stop.

    “You’re still here.”

    Rowena flicked them a glance over her tea. “I’m still solving yer problem.” She tilted her head. “Did you know yer brother’s keeping such odd hours? Two in the mornin’ and he’s running on a bloody treadmill.”

    She pushed up from her seat, silk nightgown and kimono robe falling around her legs as she moved to the counter and grabbed the kettle for another cup of tea.

    Dean made a series of aborted vowel sounds and she looked at him, one brow sweeping high. Her normally immaculate hair was sleep mussed, but still fell in elegant curls and waves. It looked as though she’d bothered with bare minimal makeup before stepping out of her room, which Castiel found curious.

    “I made myself at home in the empty room across the hall from where I’m working. Fergus sent an overnight bag and seems to be of the opinion my staying over was of a less professional nature. I’ve left him to wonder which of you I might have gotten tangled up with. His reactions as he mentally considered each possibility was quite funny.”

    Dean tore his eyes from her ballet slipper shoes to the clock on the wall and the early hour. “Wait. If Sam was up at two, what were you doing up? When did you go to sleep?”

    “Oh around three,” she waved a hand airily. “I tend to get lost in puzzles to be solved. Made Sam a cuppa and sent him off to bed.” Flicking them a glance, she hesitated. “Do you want a cup? You’re up early.”

    Castiel dropped his gaze, head lowered. Dean sauntered in, pausing by the island so Cas could slide down his arm and move around on his own on the silver surface.

    “Late nights and early mornings are what I do,” Dean declared, setting about making coffee. “Just didn’t take you for one.”

    “Typically, no,” she agreed, “but a girl loves a mystery.” She turned to Castiel, the shadow of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “By-the-by, angel, when thinking over the problem, I did make you something in the library.” He angled his head, interested as well as surprised. She hesitated, flicking a glance to Dean, before biting her bottom lip and gesticulating with thin fingers. “May I?”

    Dean’s head turned sharply.

    Cas recoiled in surprise, then sagged, turning his head away as he nodded. He tried to ignore the ease with which she picked him up, curling her arm so his back pressed to her chest, her forearm holding him securely and legs dangling free.

    She talked absently as they went, recounting her initial efforts to identify the specific transfiguration spell, or if she had the right one but the spell was reacting differently based on the subject being celestial rather than mortal and the complications to spellwork that could cause.

    Her steady stream of thought on her- rather scientific- approach and tests, of trial and error, distracted him from the way she carried him like a toy tucked in her arm. He was further distracted by the collection of miniature books in a pile on the library table.

    She released him at the table’s edge and he walked closer to the dozen or more books.

    “What are these?”

    “Sometimes to find a solution to a problem, you have to work on something else.” He looked behind him and saw Dean had followed them, lingering by the archway. “The books are too big for you so I replicated and shrunk them. Basic alchemy.”

    “You can do that?” Dean wondered, coming over to pick up a grimoire at the top of a mound. It had been a thick tome yesterday and now opened easily across his palm.

    “You had the ingredients and necessity dictated I replicate a magical object,” she answered. “I wasn’t going to risk _destroying_ the doll as I ran tests or experimented. I’ve already gone through three copies. I have to have a controlled variable to reverse engineer a complicated curse of unknown origin.”

    Lips pulling at the corners, Dean nodded, setting the grimoire down. “Not bad, Rowena.”

    “‘Damn _impressive’_ is what you mean, Winchester.” She jerked her hand toward the books as she turned away. “And I made you some pleasure reading. Yer welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready fer the day. Wake Samuel and tell him I’m recruiting him as my assistant, will you?” She faltered, shooting them a coy look over her shoulder. “Unless _you_ want to fetch me tea and help me with experiments all day?” His open mouth clicked shut and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Didn’t think so. Run along, boys. When I know something, you will.”

    Cas swiveled his eyes to look up at Dean whose mouth was working silently before clicking shut, lips pursed and brows furrowed. He looked down.

    “...I guess we have the day off.”

    “Are there other cases we can work on?”

    “We’d have to find them first and we are not-- I keep reminding myself-- the _only_ hunters in the world, and I _do not_ _want_ another hunt,” he said holding up an index finger. Frowning he looked after Rowena and back. “It’s weird being _told_ to take the day off.” He smiled crookedly, teeth flashing on one-side. “Don’t have to tell me twice, though.”

    “You deserve a day off, Dean,” he told him, wishing he knew how to better convey what he meant. Communicating in his natural form and language was so much easier, less restricted, with the ability to convey multiple thoughts, meanings, and even images simultaneously. He never seemed to get it right in this state. “You deserve to be safe and able to relax. Enjoy it. I’ll…” he looked around, the reminder of his limitations tripping his words. “I’ll… be here. Reading, I suppose.”

    There wasn’t anything else he _could_ do. Read and wait.

    If he made his way through the books Rowena made for him, would she make him more? Could he make requests? What would he request? He had no idea. He’d never had a reason for recreational reading and didn’t have any context for which stories or storytellers were good. He could ask Dean for recommendations, he supposed, then ask Rowena if she’d--

    “You’re not gonna…” Dean started, then paused, mouth open like he didn’t know the next words. Cas tilted his head. “Did you want to hang out or something?”

    Castiel straightened, material pulling in a frown. “...did _you_? It’s your off day, Dean. You don’t have to spend it babysitting me. I can get around need be.”

    He blinked, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in that look when he wasn’t happy with a situation and was counting in his head before airing his grievances regarding whatever reckless plan of the day they were faced with.

    “Well, okay, one, it’s my off day but it’s also yours, I’m halfway into retirement anyway, and _B_ , dude, how often do you ever just stick around to hang out? I mean, I get the rest of the time you have better places to be and things to do than be around us--

    “Wha-?”

    “--but chilling isn’t the same as babysitting and I wouldn’t _babysit_ you, Cas, c’mon!” He was angry and Castiel didn’t understand why. Green eyes studied him, throat bobbing before they skittered away, glaring at a random shelf. “You’re here and you’re  _never_ here. Just… hang out with me-- unless you don’t want to then that’s different.”

    “No, I want to spend time with you,” Cas insisted, then winced at the urgent honesty in his voice and words. Heat spread up Dean’s neck and his cheeks, jaw clenching and flexing. “I-I mean… I just didn’t want you to feel obligated because of… well,” he made an absent gesture, vocabulary feeling as limited and restricted as everything else.

    Even things he wanted to say, when he knew the exact words, were held at bay by the knowledge that such sentiments were unnecessary or would make Dean uncomfortable.

    Dean dropped his head, hands sliding into his pockets as he muttered something.

    “What?”

    His gaze snapped up in a glare. “I said ‘why do you always have to make me _ask_?’.” Scoffing, he pivoted. “I’m going wake Sam and then get a shower and dressed.”

    Cas was up on his feet in an instant, one hand reaching out as things he didn’t know how to voice in English caught in his throat. Dean disappeared around the corner. He wilted, dropping his head and rubbing his arm.

“I’ll just... wait here then.”

   

* * *

 

An hour later, Cas was surrounded by stacks of his miniature books with one open across his lap. Rowena had made an exact copy of the original, just as she’d said. The pages were yellowed with age, dogeared and soft, the cover and spine creased from years of handling, of being shoved in bags and carried around.

    Before the bunker, having a collection for pleasure reading wasn’t something the Winchesters could do, but in the years since, he’d seen them pick up used paperbacks at local coffee shops or yard sells, occasionally scoring books from the library or used bookstore of whatever town they were in for the case of the week.

    Very rarely had he ever gotten to see the Winchesters read for fun, but the reminder that they did, that they’d obtained small collections of their own, was a relief to him.

    He held his place with one hand, closing the book to regard the cover.

    “That’s not mine.” He looked up to see Dean standing rigid, unusually pale pallor rushing with the color of a blush, up his neck and to his face, as though all color had drained and then been replaced as the lie spilled from his lips. “Where did you get it?”

    His voice was one Cas rarely heard but recognized from Sam as a caught-red-handed sound filled with horror and embarrassment. On tv, he’d witnessed similar reactions from teenagers when their parents would go through their room and happen across evidence of budding sexual interest and curiosity, daring outfits or pornography stuffed under a mattress.

    “Rowena made it for me.” He squinted, head tilting as he studied the hunter now looking everywhere but at him. “Why are you embarrassed?”

    Dean snorted, coming forward too fast with his hand extended. “I’m not. Let’s go watch a movie.”

    Holding the book to him, Cas twisted in case Dean tried to take it. He watched the hunter’s throat bob, eyes lowered and dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. Castiel didn’t let go of the book.

    “Are you worried I’m offended? Because the story is about a man falling in love with an angel?”

    Their gazes met in a flick of Dean’s eyes. “Would you be?”

    “Do you think my father would make us immortal and capable of love, but not want or allow us to be loved in return?”

    He withdrew his hand, yanking his green eyes away. “...the book goes beyond just…” His throat bobbed. “It’s more complicated than that.”

    “I’m aware of the romantic, sexual nature between them, Dean. It’s on the back of the book.”

He wished his face could show the squinting confusion he felt. Why was this more complicated than it seemed? He wanted Dean to be point-blank. It would make it easier for Castiel to understand him half the time, would make it easier to give an articulate response. He just wanted to understand and be understood and attempting to do so felt like trying to control the flow of a tide.

“It’s taboo,” Dean mumbled.

“Because of angelic prejudice, not my father’s will,”  Cas said carefully. “He doesn’t care what we do… mostly because he just doesn’t care. I know that now.” He looked down at the book in his hands, the statue of an angel curled in on themselves and bowed low. “It’s a nice thought. Knowing we could find love, be loved in return. Not for what we _are_ or what we can _do_ , but just for _us_. Like we’re people. Like we matter.” He trailed his hand over it, feelings twisting like a sour rag inside him. “I would like to have that.”

Air poured out of Dean like a slashed tire, body sagging with a sound that made Castiel look at him. “That would require you actually _staying put_ , Cas,” Fingers scratching at his scalp, Dean’s gaze remaining lowered as he twisted away. “I need to go check on Sam.”

Castiel stomach fell, filled with an irrational fear that if Dean walked away again he wouldn’t come back.

“Can I go with you?” he blurted.

Dean froze, posture rigid and back to Castiel.

Cas held his breath, watching his broad shoulders and feeling like he were on the precipice of something, as though it were symbolic or prophetic if Dean walked away from him.

That was the second time Dean spoke of Cas’ absences and it jabbed at him. As though it were a choice Cas was making, rather than the non-abating desire to prove himself, to atone, to help however he could. That was what always kept him on the move. Not choice, but necessity.

If there was one lesson he’d learned in his existence, it was that usefulness was prerequisite to worth. Too many things were at stake for it to be any other way.

For a horrible moment, Castiel thought Dean might continue on his way and leave him behind.

Then with a stiffness that screamed unwillingness, Dean turned and came back, lowering his hand so Cas could jump into his palm and then settle on his shoulder.

The book was discarded and left behind.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s room was empty.

Cas was surprised to find he and Rowena actually working together, the two of them holed up in the R&D room.

    She was bent over a work table, dressed in a long skirt and fitted blouse, her hair elaborately piled on her head as she used a dropper to add luminescent liquid to a beaker held over a Bunsen burner.

    Sam was at the table against the adjacent wall behind her, sorting through reference materials and jotting notes down before passing them to Rowena. Shoving a list into his back pocket, he picked up a stack of leather-bound books.

    “I’m gonna reshelve these.”

    “Hurry back,” she answered. A pause. “Bring tea.”

    Dean stepped out of the way as Sam gave them what could pass for a polite smile, lips pulling at the corners as he moved by them and toward the library.

    “Why do you have a pile of porcelain dolls in the corner?”

    Cas shifted his gaze, eyes falling on the collection of unmoving dolls shoved out of the way. When he’d come to earth, he didn’t understand why humans found so many inane things frightening, like Sam’s fear of clowns. Looking at the still faces and unblinking stares, Cas understood why they were so unsettling.

    “Test subjects one thru eight.” She didn’t spare a glance from the notes Sam had given her. “I set them aside for later testing, but Fergus is supposed to send me demons to experiment on next.” Dean opened his mouth and she tapped the toe of her shoe to the painted concrete floor. “Don’t worry. Samuel and I already took precautions.”

    Taking in the demon trap and then the dolls, Cas frowned. “...you’ve been busy.”

    “It is _why_ you came t’me fer help, is it not?” she asked, fixing them with a look and raising one finely sculpted brow. “Did’ja need something?”

    “Where’d you get the books, Rowena?” Dean asked, tone flat and sharp.

Cas looked at him. The hunter’s profile was jagged lines, his lips pinched and angry.

The corner of her mouth curled, the sensuous cat-like way she had about her slipping into place as she turned her face away to busy her hands with her work and feign ignorance. “The library, of course.”

“The _other_ books.”

She straightened, mouth a perfect ‘o’ and lashes fluttering. “Oh, did you mean the _fiction_? _Well_ ,” she settled her hands on her hips, “was gonna ask if I might borrow a few for the experiment, but you were both already dead to the world, so--”

“So you _came in_ without permission--”

“You two looked _very_ cozy--”

“--and _took things_ without permission.”

“And if you’ll see, I also returned them to exactly where I found them.” She waved a hand. “You didn’ even notice _and_ I didn’ dare make a sound an’ disturb your slumber.”

“ _Boundaries_ , Rowena,” he snarled. “You- of _all_ people- should understand and respect places considered safe or private.”

 _Should understand a violation_ , Cas heard unspoken and heavy in the silence.

She flinched and dropped her gaze, fingers tracing along the edge of the table as a bright flush seeped across her cheeks.

Cas looked at Dean who had his head turned away, glaring at nothing as a blush colored his features. He wondered if that was the reason Dean had hesitated in allowing Castiel to go with him, not because he wanted to leave him behind, but so he could confront the witch about the breach of privacy.

Did the reveal of that one book bother him so greatly? The books were all fairly innocuous: _Neverwhere_ , _Frankenstein_ , _Fahrenheit 451_ , _Ex-Heroes_ , _The Vintner’s Luck_ , _Breakfast of Champions_ , and _Slaughterhouse-Five._ It had only been the angel on the cover that made him reach for that particular one, curiosity regarding angelic presence in fiction.

He’d been both intrigued and comforted to know it was a love story, but hadn’t really considered further than that, had attached no deeper meaning to the book’s presence in Dean’s collection aside from one he’d happened across by chance.

His reaction was... incomprehensible. A reminder Castiel was leagues away from understanding him. For every step forward he felt he won, there was something that knocked him back, left him unsteady on his feet and distinctly aware of the distance stretching between them.

“You have my apologies.” Rowena kept her gaze focused on her fingers on the tabletop. Dean turned away so sharply Cas nearly lost his perch. “Dean,” she said and he faltered. “I _am_ sorry.”

Throat clicking on a swallow, Dean inclined his head in acknowledgment and made his way down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Castiel felt like an intruder.

    Everything felt fractured, tape stretching across the cracks, but falling apart all the same. None of them seemed to know what to do in the aftermath of Michael and Lucifer and the scars that weren’t even scars yet, but wounds still raw and aching.

    They felt like strangers who didn’t know how to be around each other.

Sam and Dean awkwardly shuffled around each other, not making eye contact.

Jack and his quiet voicing that he would like to visit Claire, to get to know his ‘sister’. He had been unable to meet their eyes as he’d said it.

    Cas wondered if he wasn’t going to try and atone for what happened to the dream walker girl. Kaia.

    He could only hope the two of them would not do something reckless as they were want to do.

    Then there had been him and the unceasing anxiety that if he wasn’t helping, wasn’t doing, wasn’t proving himself then one of them (probably Dean) would voice the obvious: “Why are you still here?”

    A question with an answer that would undoubtedly rip everything away.

    Perhaps that was the cruel irony of the curse.

    Cas looked on the outside as helpless as he felt on the inside. A burden other people carried. Lives he unnecessarily complicated.

    He twisted, craning his neck around to look at Dean in the recliner.

    His breathing had evened out twenty minutes into the movie, falling asleep partially reclined and head lolled to the side.

    Cas was to blame for his lack of sleep, too.

    He looked at the battle playing out on the tv screen then back. Were it not for the hand curled around his middle, holding Cas to him, Castiel would have felt guiltier.

    As much as Dean probably should have deposited Cas somewhere out of the way with his pile of miniaturized books, as much as he should have told Cas a _long_ time ago to leave, for some reason he still seemed to _want_ Castiel nearby-- even if the silence between them was weighted and awkward.

    In his sleep, Dean frowned, fingers twitching at Castiel’s movement, tugging Cas a little more firmly against him.

    _You do help._

    He wasn’t sure how. When he looked back, all he saw were all the times he had failed or hadn’t been there when it might have made a difference.

    _You’re here and you’re never here._

    Wriggling so he was curled on his side, Cas rested his head against Dean’s ribs. Dean’s thumb rubbed in an unconscious circle against Castiel’s back, making him sigh and relax, drowsiness stealing over him.

    Perhaps he didn’t help much and not in the ways he thought he should, but somehow, there was something he offered that did matter to Dean, some way he helped even though he didn’t know what it was or how.

    His eyes drifted closed, comforted by the warmth of Dean’s body, the hand curled around him. He let himself believe that it was enough, whatever it was Dean found value in, enough to allow Castiel to stay. He let himself imagine he might get to keep this family he’d come to cherish, the humans he’d come to love, the man he’d come to--

    He cut off the thought, snuggled in closer to Dean, and drifted off to sleep.

    It was enough.

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until three days later that Rowena found a counter-curse.

    Despite the doll debacle, things had… improved in the bunker. All of it seemed to be credited to Rowena.

    Sam was doing better, sleeping regular hours since Rowena kept them busy all day before fixing them both a ‘cuppa’ and shooing Sam off to bed with the warning he better not keep her waiting in the morning. Perhaps it was the constant research, testing, carting books back and forth to the library, and fetching tea and their meals, but it didn’t take more than that for Sam to fall asleep at the end of the day.

    Dean was an early riser by habit, so breakfast and coffee were always ready when Sam came into the kitchen.

Sam eating and sleeping regularly made for a happier Dean.

    A happier Dean and Sam meant a happy Castiel.

    They’d spent the time alternating watching anime and movies or in Dean’s room, reclined against pillows and reading.

    Initially, when Dean had asked if Cas was okay with just chilling out and reading, Cas had reached for a different book to read, would have selected at random, had Dean not touched his fingertips to Cas’ arm.

    He’d looked up to find Dean regarding him with a shuttered expression. “You can read the book, Cas. I don’t care.”

    It was the second time Dean had lied about it. He very obviously did care but was either trying not to or to convince Cas he didn’t, neither of which worked.

    Rather than press, Cas gave a single nod, grabbing _The Vintner’s Luck_ and moving so that he was leaning against the pillow and tucked against Dean’s side as they both settled in for their reading.

    He hadn’t even finished another chapter before there was a knock on the frame of the open door.

    Rowena leaned against it with her arms folded and a coy curl to her lips. “Ready to a real boy again, angel?”

    He’d opened his mouth to point out that her question was contradictory; he could either be a real boy or an angel, not both. He swallowed the words and inclined his head.

    He wanted to be a ‘real boy’, but he needed to be an angel.

    Either option was better than being a doll.

* * *

 

 

He woke up on Dean’s bed again.

    He felt leaden and his thoughts were sluggish in registering much of anything as he dragged his eyes open to blink once at the ceiling.

    The bed shifted, a weight settling beside him as a familiar face came into view, bracing himself on one hand.

    “Cas?”

    He watched him with detachment, tongue dry and heavy in his mouth as the wet cotton of his thoughts struggled to provide a status report and other necessary information. He blinked again, laboursly.

    A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him gently before it slid up his neck and cupped the side of his face. Worry contorted the familiar features, brows drawing together over green eyes brilliant and unguarded as they studied his features.

    _Dean_ , his brain finally supplied.

    “Yeah,” he answered, “it’s me.” Castiel hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “How do you feel? Do you know where you are?”

    His brain was still churning out slowly, the first question coming back with no answer, so he answered the second. “With you,” he said, one hand coming up so he could curl his fingers, one-by-one, around the wrist of the hand still cupping his face.

    Blushing, Dean dropped his head with a breathy laugh. “Well, you’re not wrong.” Cas’ grip slid free, arm flopping to the blanket. The worry and concern were back, Dean’s thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “I’m gonna go get Rowena and be _right back_ , okay?”

    He felt the touch of fingers to the back of his hand as Dean slipped from his line of sight. Closing his eyes, Cas drew in a slow breath, tried to think and ground himself using each of his senses.

    By the time Dean and Rowena returned, Cas was struggling to push himself to a sitting position. Dean swooped in, hand on his bicep and other on his back, helping Cas lean heavily on the pillows against the headboard, blinking lethargically at the witch as she settled herself on the other side of the bed.

    Sam stood wordless in the doorway, tall frame folded in on himself, arms crossed and chewing on his thumbnail.

    Dean hovered by Cas’, hand a solid weight on his shoulder as Rowena performed a series of basic tests.

    Honestly, for a witch, her methods and manner were all very scientific, he thought. She was very impressive.

    “Thank you, angel,” she hummed. Patting his leg, she stood and smoothed out her dress. “I’m going to make you some tea to help your recovery. Bit of a potion, if you will. You’ll feel much better.”

    The hand on his shoulder tightened, fingers digging in. “What’s wrong with him?”

    “Absolutely nothing, Squirrel. Stop fretting.” Her glittering nails flashed in the artificial light as she gestured. “It’s like he’s coming off a magical anesthetic. It’ll wear off quick enough.”

    The rest of their words were lost as he slipped back into the fog of sleep, content in the knowledge that he was home and safe. Anything else wasn’t terribly important.

* * *

 

 

Cas hadn’t known what to do with the miniaturized grimoires and novels once he was returned to form, so he set them on a mostly empty center shelf in the library, using heavy iron bookends to hold them in place.

    Standing there, he let his finger trail the spine of the book in the center, over the red lettering on a silver backdrop creased and lined. He swept his eye over the different titles and resisted the urge to double-check the list tucked in his pocket. They were all there should he happen across them at some used bookshop, but he was especially drawn to only one.

    He knew it was going to break his heart when he read it. Knew it would hit his weakest spot and carve in deep. How could it not? A story about an angel in love with a human? There was simply no way it would end happy, but the experience, the highs of it, that made it worth the pain.

    Castiel turned away, let his arm fall as he drew in a solidifying breath.

    He was stalling. There was nothing for him to do, no mission to help on or research to parse through. The thought of hunting down a place where he might be needed was exhausting. He was weary from leaving, knowing it was necessary but always wanting to stay.

    It was ironic, actually.

    While he’d delayed for as many days as possible before he would have to leave, to go do something of use… Rowena had settled in and seemed to have little intention of leaving.

    She went to art galleries and formal parties, met Crowley for lunch and tea, and spent most of her time in the bunker sequestered in the R&D room, occasionally employing Sam as her all-too-willing assistant. He seemed to be doing better for it.

    It was strange. Coming into the kitchen to find her in nightgown and silk robe chatting with Dean over breakfast. The casual way of it, like she didn’t even question if it was allowed or if she belonged. The way Dean had chuckled into his coffee before glancing at him over his shoulder with a crooked grin and mirth in his eyes. _Morning, Sunshine._

    And Castiel had to leave. There was always the mission to fight, a purpose to fill.

Castiel had to leave when he wanted to stay.

Because he needed to be useful.

Because if he wasn’t, then he was failing them.

If he failed them, they wouldn’t need him.

 _Dean_ wouldn’t need him.

Castiel wanted to be wanted, but that was not an experience he was familiar with. To just _belong._

He hoped that in some other life, some other universe, things were different. That he and Dean were able to just meet and be friends without all the complications of world-saving and the pressure of responsibility on their shoulders. He hoped they would be able to be more than just friends, with lingering looks and touches, going on dates where they drove just to drive and parked the Impala in a field with blankets and drinks to watch the stars overhead.

He shook the thought away, hand on the rail as he took the first of the stairs leading to the entrance.

It didn’t do to dwell on what might have been in another life. It did nothing to change things in the one he had.

“So that’s it?” Dean asked. He turned at the top of the stairs to see Dean by the map table, arms folded. “You’re just gonna leave? Not even a goodbye at that?”

Guilt and longing twisted sharp inside Castiel, hand tightening on the railing and accentuating the peaks of his knuckles.

“There are things that need to be done.” He dropped his gaze, unable to bear the sight of the other man. “Good-byes make it harder to leave and feel too permanent.”

“So if you don’t say goodbye it means you can still come back?” Castiel swallowed. “So, you expect me to always be waiting, but you won’t promise the same?”

“I don’t expect you to wait.”

“Why do you always do this, Cas?” he demanded, tone sharp and full of accusation, startling Castiel. Green eyes, bright and sharp with anger, glared at him. “You always run off instead of staying. Cas, if you don’t want to be here, _then don’t be here_.” His throat bobbed and Dean wiped a hand over his face, looking away. “I’m tired of being jerked around.”

Cas came down a step, one foot planted on the metal grate below. “Why would you think I don’t want to be here? Dean, you-- _this_ \-- is the only family I have.”

He remembered curling up next to Dean in the dark, face pressed into his shirt as he counted his heartbeats and drifted to sleep warm and content, despite the circumstances that allowed such intimate proximity.

He’d spent most of the last week by Dean’s side; on his shoulder, in his lap, or tucked against his side. It was a harsh realization he wouldn’t have that anymore. His limitations were stifling. The words he couldn’t say, others he didn’t know how to translate and convey. He couldn’t just curl into Dean now. Couldn’t touch him or be seen in his true form. Could only be compressed and folded into a new body with a voice and language that weren’t his own, choked by the things he _wanted_ and had no idea how to _have_.

He came down another step. “Dean, how could you think I want to be anywhere but here?”

“Because you are _always leaving_ ,” he accused. Castiel flinched. “You always make me _ask_ , to try and coax you to stay for a minute longer but there’s always _somewhere_ more important you’d rather be.”

“Dean, there’s never been anywhere else I want to be!” he snapped back. “I don’t go because I _want_ to. If I don’t then I’m not useful and if I’m not useful then what _point_ is there in coming back?”

“The point is being here!”

“Not if you don’t need me!” he retorted, anger making their voices rise.

“I always need you!” Dean shot back.

Cas jerked, eyes wide.

Dean yanked his face away, fair skin flushing red hot with the admission.

Descending the final steps until his feet reached the floor, Castiel shook his head. “…I don’t understand.”

“What’s so hard to get?”

“The mission…”

Dean blinked, head swiveling to look at him, brow wrinkled. A look like sudden realization lit his eyes. “Cas, I don’t want you here because of some _mission_. You don’t have to… _prove_ yourself or _earn a place_ here. _That_ is what family means. I want you here just because I want you here, not because of a _case_ or a _crisis_ or the world ending for the millionth time.” He swallowed and Cas’ eyes tracked the movement before meeting his eye. “Just being you is enough. Mission or no-- and I am _tired_ of one more mission. I told Sam before: we saved the world from Michael and Lucifer, I was tapping out.” His tongue darted across his bottom lip, hand raised to touch his chest. “I did and I _still_ want you here, Cas. You can tap out, too. We’ll take a long-overdue vacation to a warm beach, but you’d have to actually _stay_ for once.”

He didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to, didn’t want to hope and be wrong that they might could actually just _be_. That Dean might want him in his life and by his side the same impossible way Castiel wanted him.

Castiel crossed the space between them without realizing, hand curling around Dean’s raised wrist. Green eyes darted frantically over his face, breaths shallow and too fast and Castiel must dream the way Dean’s pupils dilated, eyes falling to Cas’ mouth and then back.

Maybe it was a dream, but even in dreams, Cas didn’t know the words or how to form them on his tongue. Instead, he cupped the back of Dean’s neck with his free hand and swooped in to press his mouth to his, lips soft and heart pounding.

The hunter froze, entire body rigid. Castiel let his lips linger, pulling back just enough to brush his mouth against Dean’s once more, to nip lightly at his bottom lip. He wanted to be understood though language failed him. There would be no misunderstanding this.

With a sigh that could have been Castiel’s name, Dean shifted, hand grabbing a fistful of his coat and jacket and pulling him in closer, holding him there as their mouths met again, both of them holding on as if they never wanted to let go.

He almost couldn’t believe it, too fantastic and surreal and yet, there was Dean, warm beneath his fingertips, lips pliant and moving against his own, unhurried but eager, pressing into Castiel as much as Cas was pressing into him. Hands were in hair and gripping at clothes and it was exhilarating and impossible and like the first sweet taste of air and freedom so that Cas broke the kiss on a breathy laugh, forehead pressing to Dean’s. He wasn't sure if he needed to laugh or cry. Maybe both, broken and set free as he was.

“What’s funny?” Dean questioned, the words ghosting over Castiel’s mouth, making him want to lean back in and capture them with his own.

He gave into the impulse, pressing his mouth to Dean’s a chaste kiss, savoring it before pulling back to smile.

“You want me to _stay_.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, Cas. I want you to stay.”

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

“-yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. Just let us know when you get here,” Dean said before ending the call and tucking the device into the bag they’re brought with them down to the shore.

Castiel rolled his head to the side, cracking open one eye to look at him. “Claire?”

Dean’s thumb stroked over his where their interlaced fingers lay between their chairs.

Cas marveled over the sight of their hands together. Human hands. It had been the obvious outcome given the progression of events leading to the removal of his grace--  a desire he’d had for longer than he would admit. Live a human life with Dean by his side. Live it with a family he had found and that found him.

He’d never been so happy.

“Yeah. She and Jack just picked up Charlie and are going to stop to get proper beach clothes and swimsuits, so it should be a few hours more.  Jody and Donna should get here before them. The other girls stayed home.”

He angled his head back, craning to see the bright blue house with white shutters raised on pilings, their various vehicles parked underneath.

Sam and Rowena were making their way across the white sand, he in swimming trunks and sleeveless shirt, and she dressed in a bright red two-piece with colorful material knotted at her hip and billowing away from her legs.

He looked to the man beside him. “Did she tell them there’s plenty of room in the house?”

“Yeah, but apparently, Jody and Donna were due a vacation, Alex and Patience were due some peace and quiet in a house not so full, and Claire and Jack decided sibling bonding included a road trip to the beach.”

“How’s the water, boys?” asked Rowena, dropping her bag by the chair on Castiel’s other side.

She flicked her fingers and the blue canvas umbrella blossomed open, throwing her and Sam’s chairs into shade as he set down his things and a cooler.

“Dunno,” Dean said, dropping his sunglasses onto his nose and laying his head back. “I am way too happy and content _right here_.”

Castiel squeezed his hand.

Rolling her eyes, Rowena untied her half skirt and draped it over the back of her chair with a muttered comment before heading toward the water.

Sam’s eyes followed her.

Dean rolled his head around to look at his brother over his sunglasses, one brow arched high and smirking. “Dude. Are you checking out _Rowena_?”

Sam blushed, jerking in surprise. “What? Pfft, no.”

A wide grin splitting his features, Dean leaned back. “Oh my God, you were checking out Crowley’s _mom._ I can’t wait to tell him.”

“Don’t you _dare_.” He looked after her. “We’re just… friends.”

“For now.”

Sam glared. “I _like_ having a friend, Dean.” He looked down with a jerky shrug. “I think she does, too. It’s been... _nice_ having her in the bunker.”

Smile curving the corner of his mouth, Dean waved him off. “I know, Sammy. I have decided to _never_ tell _her_ that, though.”

Sam peeled off his shirt and tossed it at his brother’s face. “Whatever. You two getting in the water?”

Castiel looked at Dean who looked at him and they both smiled.

“I think we’re good right here,” Cas said.

Dean nodded, leaning back with a toothy grin. “We’re beyond good. We’re _retired_ and it’s _great_.”

Smiling, Cas let his eyes slide closed, basking in the warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves on the shore, the feeling of Dean’s hand in his.

It was better than great. It was perfect.

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't forget to properly feed and water your fanwork creators if you wish for them to live and thrive. Show them love in the form of comments and kudos. Creation is a labor of love that too often makes you wonder why you're still even doing it. Let people know you appreciate them and their efforts.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crochet Angel [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316894) by [Tenoko1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1)




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